Journey of Love
by AgentSparkles
Summary: Two hearts. One love. One journey.


**Journey of Love**

It's been two months. Two months and three days since I'd talked to her, and I can already feel it. I feel my stomach churning, my heart aching. These feelings...overwhelming, and goddamn intimidating. Exactly how I felt when I lost everything I loved.

I lost so much. I lost my parents, I lost Beth, I lost my first true love. And I just broke. I didn't know how to handle all the hurt I was feeling. I didn't even think it was possible to be hurting as much as I was. The hurt started to wear me out, physically, mentally, emotionally. And so I became weary to the point where it buried me so deep, it was suffocating. I was a tortured soul, caged in the body of a seventeen year old girl with no way out. I had nowhere to go, no one to go to.

Then, I thought of her. And how maybe...just maybe, she would be the one to save me. I remember those hot summer days I'd spend out on the hood of my car, taking a smoke; a disgusting habit I took up, thinking it would somehow drift the pain away. I was wrong.

I remember her. She'd eye me from her porch. Whether she was sipping a cold glass of iced tea, rehearsing a song she wrote, or simply sitting on the porch steps, tugging on the blades of grass. And all the while, I'd sit there, hoping she'd come. Praying she would at least say a word to me, and save me from the hell I was putting myself through. But she never did. She just sat there, kept quiet, and watched from a distance.

Day by day, I'd do the same crap. I'd take a smoke and sit on my car, waiting for her to come talk to me. It took me a whole week to realize that she never would. Until that night.

It was a Sunday, that night. I'd already had several mental breakdowns by then. I remember puffing a whole pack and drinking half a bottle of vodka before somehow stumbling my way onto her porch. I don't remember if I rang the doorbell or what, but I was still sober enough to recall the gist of what had happened.

She opened her front door, and she just stood there, staring. She must have smelled the liquor, because almost instinctively, she hooked my arm over her shoulder and guided me to the swing on her porch. Again, she just stared. I opened my mouth to apologize. It was late, I reeked of booze, and there I was, sitting on the swing on her front porch, eyes glazed, with no known intention.

I suddenly felt dizzy, and I wasn't sure whether it was because I was so loaded, or because I was confused and nervous as hell. But before I could gather up the words to say, I puked. All over her porch. She pulled my hair behind my ears while I did, and she didn't even flinch.

We both sat in comfortable silence before she headed inside to hand me a wet towel to clean my face. She sat beside me as I cleaned myself off, and I kept my eyes on the vomit chunks on the porch, subconsciously wondering why she hadn't yet bothered to wash them off. I could feel her eyes on me, surprised she hadn't burned holes through the right side of my face.

"Are you okay?"

She didn't even ask me what had happened, or why I was there; she'd asked if I was okay. The shock stalled my reply, and my vocal chords gave out. I simply nodded.

"Are you sure?" I was taken aback. She had asked again. I looked up to meet her eyes. Those perfect, chocolate brown orbs. Why did she ask again? Did she think I was lying to her? But before I had time to ponder her motive, my lower lip trembled, and tears pooled in my eyes.

"No," I whispered.

And I just lost it. I was literally bawling, and I really had no idea why.

"It's okay, it's okay...I'm here." She put her arms around me. "I'm not going anywhere."

And I cried. I kept crying for what seemed like an eternity. And all she did was hold me. Not a word escaped her lips. She just held me and let me cry.

Somehow, after I'd stopped crying, she had laid her head over mine. And although neither of us had spoken a word to each other, during that moment, everything seemed to be...better. Something I feared would never become a reality. Something I'd thought would be sketched in my imagination and etched to stay.

But it wasn't just my imagination. It was reality. A reality that couldn't seem to match up to any of the fantasies I'd ever had. It was dreamlike. So dreamlike, in fact, that it was almost surreal.

And I became scared. Who was I to go to Rachel, vomit on her porch, and make her take care of me? And who was she to let me? I was terrible to her, and there she was, acting as if I never did any harm. As if I never treated her the way that I did. It was impossible. No human being could be that generous. It just wouldn't make any sense.

I suddenly became intensely aware of the position I was in. The girl I used to taunt and torment was sitting by my side, holding me, comforting me. It just didn't feel right. My breathing accelerated, my heart rate increased.

What the hell was I doing?

I ran. I ran, and I ran like my life depended on it. Because it kind of did. I didn't even look back. I didn't want to see her. I didn't want to see her reaction. Was it hurt? Confusion? Relief? I didn't want to know.

The rest of the night? An ominous blur.

I woke up the next morning in this 40-year-old skater's house with a throbbing headache, pink hair, and a tattoo of Ryan Seacrest on my lower back. I don't exactly know how I got there. I just know that I did. And after what went on the night prior, I honestly didn't even care. Not anymore, at least.

By the next week, I'd gotten rid of my usual attire. Stashed it in the trunk of my car. I started to live with Rob, the skater that had brought me in that night. Everyone seemed to think we had a thing going on, but in all honesty, it was all just a compromise. He needed company; I needed a roof over my head. It was as simple as that.

It wasn't until a week before school that I met The Skanks. A clique made up of a group of chicks that just didn't fit in anywhere else.

One of the girls, The Mack (I still don't know her real name), offered me to stay at her place, a proposition I couldn't pass up. I mean, don't get me wrong. Rob was cool. But not only was he high all the time, he would bring some whore inside the house every night. And guess who had the pleasure of hearing their love-making noises _every single night_? Yours truly.

Mack and I had a little friends-with-benefits type of thing going on. I'd give her "favors" when she needed them, and she did the same. No strings attached. Or so I thought. I stopped agreeing to give her "favors" after I realized she just might have developed some more-than-friendly feelings towards me.

"Hit me up with a cig, Q."

I tossed Ronnie the cigarette pack and raised a trembling hand over my lips to puff on the cancer stick on my right hand, hoping to calm my nerves. I never thought another human being would ever be capable of making me feel this way.

Especially not Rachel Berry.

**A/N: Was it good? Was it bad? Give me feedback! I'd really appreciate it. :)**


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